


drink 'til you drop

by bloodrunsred



Series: just a little bit broken [2]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Autistic Morty Smith, BAMF Morty Smith, Character Death, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Guilt, Hurt Rick, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, M/M, Murder, Possessive Rick, Protective Rick, Sad, Substance Abuse, Triggers, Underage Drinking, Verbal Abuse, morty is a drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-01 06:35:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16759870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodrunsred/pseuds/bloodrunsred
Summary: It was nerve-wracking, having his grandpa hold guns to his head and knives to his throat. It was disillusioning, having to disarm the improvised neutrino bombs while Rick plotted the death of his planet, his family (they were still his family, even if he hadn't been born in their dimension).It was something Morty wished he didn't have to do.





	drink 'til you drop

**Author's Note:**

> JESUS. this is dark and sad and gruesome i hope you love it. a quick note is that, in the series this belongs to, this has absolutely 0 relevance. if this aint your thing, forget it exists and wait for me to destroy your heart in a different way in the next update. the series is random snippets that only connect if you think it does, or if i make it clear.
> 
> happy reading - i thrive on feedback and comments! let me know what you loved, what you hated, i want to improve!

Everyone in his family drank.

That was just their thing; families are all dysfunctional in different ways. Alcohol was the Smith and Sanchez way. That didn't mean he particularly liked it. No, he hated and dreaded the times his mother passed out in the kitchen after having turned the stove on and left it (Morty thought she did it on purpose - it was such a Rick thing to do). He was terrified every time Summer curled up in the shower after drinking too much and partying too hard. He was disgusted when his dad got drunk and called the house to threaten Beth - or whoever picked up.

But most of all, he hated out unpredictable Rick was when he drank. With the rest of the family, there were pretty clear cut actions he could take to help them, or stop them from doing something that they (he) might regret. He didn't know if other kids had talked their dads down from suicide, or hid the extra wine their moms bought under their beds, but he knew that it was preferable to what Rick had him do.

It was nerve-wracking, having his grandpa hold guns to his head and knives to his throat. It was disillusioning, having to disarm the improvised neutrino bombs while Rick plotted the death of his planet, his family (they were still his family, even if he hadn't been born in their dimension).

It was something Morty wished he didn't have to do.

And, at two in the morning when he was sure Rick wasn't going to burst in, he had a little something to drink. He didn't know why. But he had seen what it could do; God, Rick had become best friends with his worst enemies because they gave him a decent bottle of whiskey. He had seen his mom giggle and laugh with Rick as they bonded over their addiction, had seen Summer be happy for the first time in ages, just because she was going to get wasted at her boyfriend's party.

And it helped. Some. It took away some of the tension that would always be there if his mom didn't drink red wine instead of coffee at seven in the morning. He had seen everyone in his house sober, and he knew that even though it wasn't good for them (not good for them? He could see it killing them, all of them), he was selfish. It was good for him, and he just wanted his family to stay together.

(He remembered when his mom crept into his room when he was little, hugging him in a way she refused to do when she was sober. He also remembered every time he found her, just six years old, crying in the bathtub with a box of wine in one hand and a knife in the other).

It wasn't like he could stop them. He was just a Morty; if there was ever a dimension where his opinion was valued or his feelings mattered, he would love to see it. He chuckled a little as a mean thought crossed his mind.

It was probably a dimension where Rick never came back.

He pulled a half empty bottle of vodka out from his sock drawer (he had stolen it from Jerry; he bet that the man still hadn't noticed) and opened it, the noise seeming louder than it should have been. He had a glass on his bedside table - but, looking at his trembling hands, he decided not to risk it.

Rick would be upset if he had to fix another one of Morty's dumb mistakes; if he even would fix Morty's cut up hands. Like his mom, Rick preffered to keep a 'Cry It Out' policy with pretty much everything parenting-related. Morty couldn't help but feel jealousy creep up his spine at the thought of Summer actually being coddled by his - their - her parents.

He wouldn't be surprised if she had been; Summer was obviously the more rounded individual of the two of them, socially and academically. She was also difficult and disobedient, something that might have encouraged his mom to try a technique that would hopefully make him more like her. Unfortunately, it just turned him into...

Whatever he was.

It was hard to know - he definitely wasn't a Jerry, or he would be dead already. Rick would have taken him out somewhere and Morty would have laid down and died if he were his father. But he definitely wasn't his mother. His mom was intelligent, smart, cold, maybe a little narcissistic. She was willful and prideful, something that Morty had never been in his life. And he and Summer were as different as night and day.

Rick was just Rick. There was no one like him (aside from all of the other versions of himself, but they were all him, technically) and if anyone was it wouldn't be Morty. That much was for sure.

The shaking got worse with his lax grip, and he accidentally spilt a decent portion of the drink all over the front of his shirt (he never bothered getting changed into his pyjamas anymore; they weren't amazing for high-stress situations, and Rick thought they were ugly). He didn't bother to go and get changed - Rick was probably having a black-out night and was busy trying to beat death in the garage or something.

Holding the neck of the bottle loosely kept the shivers at bay, and he knew they would fade away nearly entirely once he finished off the bottle. Hopefully, at least. Morty's reaction to alcohol depended on little things. There was a fine line between being a giggling, floating puddle and being a sobbing, heaving mess. Much like how Rick was when he was drunk. Morty huffed an amused breath and took a long sip.

At least he had inherited one thing from Rick.

HIs alcohol tolerance and mood swings were hardly something to be proud of; in fact, very few healthy people would take pride in that. Luckily, Morty knew he wasn't healthy (God, that escapade had been a mess - but he missed not caring, he had to admit). He was more self-aware than most people he knew; his mom, who saw the world through rose-coloured glasses, Rick, who couldn't own up to his mistakes. Jerry, who preffered to be blind to every bad thing the universe threw his way and Summer, who disconnected from everyone.

Morty knew he was stupid.

Morty knew he was a shield.

Morty knew that it was going to be Rick that eventually killed him.

For a dumbass, he sure knew a lot. It was almost funny - in terms of emotional maturity and intelligence, he probably ranked higher than Rick. Morty couldn't help but glance around the room; as though Rick could read his mind and was waiting for an excuse to come in and teach Morty his place again. Rick was almost a child, if Morty was being honest with himself. He giggled at his secret thought - and it would have to be secret, or somehow Rick would make him forget or get revenge in some ridiculous way - and sighed.

Rick was more of a child than Morty had been in a long, long time.

Another sip slid down his throat. It burned, of course, but it was nothing compared to what he had been forced to go through before. Memories raced through his mind and he was forced to drown them with another mouthful. His mind got stuck on one, and it washed over his body like some kind of fucked up blanket. Morty wasn't drunk yet. He was a little past buzzed and little past tipsy, but he was almost out his drink.

He had two choices; he could either stay in bed with an empty bottle and sulk, or quickly go downstairs and steal some of his mom's wine (stealing Rick's drinks was almost suicidal - he loved his alcohol more than he loved himself. Not that it was a high bar to reach).

He knew his choice before he even pushed his covers off. He gathered all his bottles that needed to be thrown out - in the middle of the night, the timing was as good as any - and, with maybe five bottles held tightly in his arms to prevent them from clinking, he stumbled down the stairs.

The kitchen was surprisingly clean, for the first time in ages. Morty and Summer normally shared chores, but she hadn't been picking up much slack since Rick came to live with them (and made sure Morty was never home to do his share). The clock on the microwave said it was nearly three, which meant that, if Rick didn't take him out all day, he would have around four hours until he needed to get ready for school.

He slid the bottles into the recycling bin as quietly as he could, before turning to sit on the bench. The cool marble soothed the bruises that had formed on his legs and thighs from nowhere; his brain told him that it had to be a Rick Problem, but Morty didn't want to think of how they got there. He kicked his legs like a small child would, letting himself breathe and just think. 

It was a challenge, he had to admit. He wan't used to anyone letting him have an original thought; ever since he had been little, people had been telling him what do think, what to believe and punished him when he said anything to the contrary of their beliefs. Even as he tried to relax, his thoughts were biased and contradicted each other. He hated and loved Rick, he resented and cared for his mother.

His thoughts weren't his, not in the way that counted. They were tainted by Rick, his insults curling around every idea Morty had, his attitude fraying Morty's beliefs. It wasn't hard to imagine what Rick was trying to do; he was going to destroy Morty. He was going to break him, he was going to whittle him down to nothing just so he could build Morty back up.

Morty was already half-way there, he could feel it in his bones. He was becoming too afraid of Rick's outbursts to question the man, he was following orders better than ever - only because Rick made sure he suffered the consequences when he didn't. Morty couldn't help but shiver at the phantom pain that shot through his legs, hot and burning. Morty stood to get a drink, catching a glimpse of himself in the kitchen window.

He looked _awful_. His clothes were rumpled and stained, his old sneakers ratty and torn. His hair was longer than he remembered it being, messy and half matted to his skull with dry sweat. His face, though - that was the real kicker. His first thought was that he was pale. Paler than a teenage boy had any business being. His second was that he needed to steal more of Summer's concealer; his eyes were red-rimmed and swollen from his late-night escapades, the purple smudges under his eyes reminding him of bruises. He looked afraid. He looked small. He looked like the kind of person tht Rick would shoot, just so he didn't have to look at him.

He looked like some small, abused child and he felt almost indignant fury at that realisation. Morty was many things, but he was not a weak or helpless kid. He had done more things (committed more crimes) in his short years than most would never be able to accomplish in their lifespans.

He pulled the bottle out, sneered at his reflection and popped the cork.

He drank without any of his previous hesitance and slowness, not pulling away from mouth of the bottle until it was half drained. He settled back into his seat on the bench, staring at nothing.

"Here's to you, Ri-ck," he sounded out Rick's name slowly, like saying it aloud would call the man to him, "and here's to me." He was much drunker, and he knew it wasn't going to be a fun night, sensed it in the deepest corners of his mind.

And, if he spent the whole night crying and thinking of everything he had done, seeing everything through Rick-coloured glasses? It wouldn't be any diiferent from when he was sober.

"Here's to - to dead Rick, 'n here's to dead me!" He swallowed another moutful, relishing in the burn. He giggled, even as he felt a strange wetness pool in his eyes - why was he crying. Morty hurriedly put his bottle down to wipe at his eyes; Rick hated it when he cried, so Morty hated it too. There was no reason to cry, after all. 

_Pathetic_ , his brain spat, sounding too much like Rick, _it's a wonder he doesn't just cash in on his voucher - you know he didn't get rid of it!_

"Shut up - shut up, shut up, shut up!" He punctuated each word with a sharp slap to the head, distracted from drying his own tears. All he wanted was for Rick to just shut up, all he wanted was for Rick to stop it, all he wanted was for Rick to just di-

"Morty?"

Rick's voice was wary and uncertain, almost afraid - it was unusual, the way he trailed off at the end, like he didn't mean to speak. Rick was purposeful and prideful, he didn't just regret things the way Morty did, he was sure of it. Morty would have a hard time believing it was Rick at all, if not for the fact that the man was standing in the kitchen doorway. _Oh_ , Morty thought, _oh._ He had been too loud and Rick had been working in the garage. Of course the man had heard him.

He sat, frozen for a long minute with the head buried in his hands. He felt a slight wetness as he pulled his hands away, and he remembered that he needed to cut his nails. As fast as his fear and apprehension had appeared, it faded.

It was just _Rick._

Rick was an acoholic who encouraged Morty to drink more often than not, and mocked him when he refused (Morty couldn't drink in front of Rick; he was too afraid that he would say something aloud that was supposed to be unspoken between them). Rick was probably just confused that Morty was breaking the rules and actually doing something cool for once.

With that firmly in mind, Morty tried to make his escape. 

"Rick!" Morty smiled, blinking blearily at Rick as he grabbed his bottle. "I'm sorry for - to distract you from your science!"

Morty started to walk, a little unsteadily, towards the stairs. He was drunker than he thought - Rick's face, instead of showing the confusion or shock Morty expected, almost seemed angry. Guilty. Afraid. Of course, that wasn't very Rick-like, so Morty ignored it. Rick was still in the doorway when Morty tried to slip past him - standing as still as a statue until the very last second.

Morty yelped a little when Rick seized his arm, not expecting the harsh way Rick squeezed it - Morty peered into Rick's eyes out of habit, trying to tell whether or not the scientist was high or wasted. Whether his eyes were cloudy or unfocused; that was how Morty could tell when Rick might get violent with him. But, from what Morty could tell, Rick wasn't anything but slightly annoyed.

That made the bruising grip on his arm sting all the more, for whatever reason.

"Ow! What - what - fuck off, Rick," Morty hissed, amazed that his mom hadn't already come down to check on him (then again, she was probably out cold), " you're hurting me!"

Rick ignored him. Morty wondered if maybe he was high after all, because there was a gleam in his eye, an insane, manic look. Morty was about to open his mouth again, was ready to push Rick off him when the scientist shook him.

It wasn't too hard, but it was enough for Morty to drop the wine.

It landed on the floor with a loud _smash_ , and they both froze. Morty thanked whatever God existed ( _Rick,_ his mind whispered, _Rick_ ) when the house remained quiet, because Summer had probably snuck out again and his mom had almost definitely passed out in her own vomit. 

"You don't do that, you hear me?" Rick snarled, pulling Morty close until the teenager could feel the flecks of spit hitting his face as Rick continued to talk. "You - you - you - if I ever see you do this again, Morty, God."

And it made sense, kind of; he wouldn't be a very good shield or human-backpack if he was constantly drunk, which was what Rick was probably worried about. He brushed aside the hurt that came with the knowledge that Rick only cared about what Morty could do for him. Not Morty at all. Everything Rick cared about or loved, was something that helped him or was at least useful. Morty just didn't fit the bill.

"Rick, it's only at night sometimes, I promise!" Morty was already itching to turn back and get a new bottle - preferably something stronger. "You don't have to worry about - about me fucking up on adventures or anything like that! But you know it-"

Rick's face twitching slightly was the only warning Morty got before Rick raised his hand. Morty flinched before he could stop himself ( _stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid_ ), and Rick paused. Morty hunched down a little more, averting his eyes - even if Rick wasn't drunk, maybe the same techniques would work. They stood like that, wine pooling around them, for a breathless minute.

"Go to bed, Morty," Rick said.

Morty wanted to disobey, to yell and shriek, but his drunken bravado had all but disappeared. He looked behind him longingly, at the cupboards filled with bottles, but only for a second - he didn't want Rick to think he was trying to disobey him, after all. He nodded once, walking to his bedroom defeatedly.

He would say he hated Rick, but that would be a lie. And both of them knew it. 

* * *

When Morty was startled from his bed next, the sky was a light pink, the air heavy with moisture. Rick was standing over him, Morty realised belatedly, but then his usual feelings began to flow at full force (anger, fear, betrayal, anxiety) because Rick was holding a _gun._

He was crying too, and Morty had to wonder if he could even see his target - even see him. 

"I'm so - so sorry, Morty," he choked out, his hand surprisingly steady, his finger on the trigger, "I'm sorry, but - it's okay, grandpa's gonna fix it. You're such a good, such a good Morty, Morty."

"Rick - Rick, put the gun down, please?" 

Morty was scared. Rick was drunker than Morty had ever seen him, and Morty should have been used to such scenarios, but he hadn't passed out yet. He was forced to confront the truth that he would be dead twenty times over if Rick didn't pass out as much as he did. God, even with everything he had been through, Rick was still the one thing, the one person that scared him the most.

"You won't have to - you won't be like me, Mo-orty," Rick said, pushing the gun forwards until it was pressed against Morty's forehead - the cool, alien metal soothing his sweaty skin.

Was this it? Was this the time where he would finally be dead? Gone? Morty thought of Rick - the living one. Would he bury him in the backyard with the other Morty?

He wondered what Morty would follow him. He wondered how many Mortys Rick would ruin, how much of the backyard would be dug up and destroyed to fit more bodies. Morty was terrified; he should have been shrieking for his mom, begging Rick not to shoot, praying, _anything._ He was crying, though - large tears rolled down his cheeks even as he accepted his fate (and hadn't he always known he was going to die at Rick's whims anyway?).

But Morty wasn't himself, he wasn't anyone or anything without Rick. His voice broke over every word as he spoke:

"I love you, Rick."

And then Rick was pulling the trigger, Morty's blood staining his skin and soul in a deep, glistening red that oh-so reminded Rick of the wine that had been spilled not even an hour ago. Soon, he was turning it on himself.

Drinking had always been their family's dysfunction.

**Author's Note:**

> ur crying arent u.
> 
> let those feelings out in the comment section!!
> 
> a quick note: i adore feedback because i write this stuff to improve and develop my own style. im going to be honest; i do feel like my writing isn't being well received when there's a ton of hits but very few kudos or comments.
> 
> click [HERE](https://xbloodrunsredx.tumblr.com/) for my tumblr!


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